Shelter
by Hutchie
Summary: Apocalypse-related story.  Somewhat intense.


Written for Nickygabriel for the Ethiopia thing. Prompt, pre/post-apocalypse.

**Shelter**

by Allie

It seemed as though every siren in the city was running.

The TV stations and radio programs all blared the same babbled warnings.

The end of the world.

Here you thought it had been postponed, that the nations with nuclear power would stay at peace with one another—no matter how precarious—peace that let regular people go about their business, live their lives, work, raise their children, and have hope for the future.

Instead… nuclear war loomed, now so dark and clear on the horizon that it seemed to blot out the sun—not just today, but the possibility of the sun shining clear and wholesome and free ever again.

Hutch shook his head, trying to chase away these thoughts. There wasn't time even to think. There wasn't time for anything now. They had to get as many people as they could to safety, before the bombs fell.

Dubious safety, at that. The buildings marked as fallout shelters—churches, police station, any substantial- sized buildings with a reinforced concrete basement—were filling rapidly. Even they would not survive a direct hit with a nuclear bomb.

Many people were fleeing inland, packing the highways, pausing to steal or buy or riot for food, water, gasoline.

Yet no one knew who would be the first to die—where on the West Coast it would be safe. If anywhere was.

It was so hard to get information. No one seemed to know; everyone was panicking.

Hutch stood side by side with a fellow policeman. The young, uniformed cop was sweating. He looked far younger than his early twenties. Hutch wanted to tell him to go down to the shelter as well, but he couldn't. They were all needed—and more—to help people to safety (if it was safety), and to try to contain some of the wildness that seemed to be taking over, with everyone afraid of sudden death from the skies.

"Over here!" Hutch beckoned to a station wagon filled and overflowing with people. He dashed forward to get the door. "Down the steps, into the basement," he repeated for what felt like the thousandth time in just this hour.

He needed Starsky. Where was Starsky?

A terrified-looking husband and wife tumbled from the car, the wife in curlers, the husband in shorts and an I LOVE GOLF t-shirt. In the back, a variety of children were tumbled together, black, white, and Latino, and a dog. The children were crying or staring at everything with large, frightened eyes. One had the dog in a death grip round the neck. Even the dog seemed frightened and subdued.

The family started down the steps.

"Not the dog," said Hutch.

He hated to do it. It broke his heart as much as it must hurt that little girl. But there just wasn't room for animals. To be honest, there wouldn't be room for people, soon.

The girl burst into tears, but the man thrust the leash into Hutch's hands, picked up the girl, and started at a run down the steps. Everyone followed, the children casting anxious glances back at the dog.

"I'll take care of him," Hutch found himself promising.

He looked around blindly.

_And where was Starsky?_

There, a bicycle rack. He slid the leash through, tied it to itself, left the dog and walked back to the entrance. The dog barked once, then sat down and watched him, panting a little in the warm August sun.

A beautiful day—until death rained down from the suddenly-leaden skies….

Hutch thought of all the apocalypse movies and books he'd read, wishing now that he hadn't. The public imagination was far too vivid. It was terrifying, to think that the thing he'd dreaded all his life, and finally stopped believing would ever happen ("Nations can get along, we're all just people, the Russians want to live life the same as we do, no one wants nuclear winter—"), were now happening.

**On the Beach, by Nevill Chute. A terrifying book, a terrifying movie. Everyone had been killed, except in Australia. Then a nuclear cloud was heading to Australia. Everyone had enjoyed one last day, and then killed themselves, before they could die from the hideous, bloody, body-destroying nuclear material. Enough to wake you jabbering in fear from this nightmare, after reading the book or watching the movie. Hutch had been stupid enough to do both.**

Hours he would never get back. Now, in his final hours, there was only one thing he could think about. Where was Starsky?

He knew, as he had always known, that they were police officers first. He could not be looking for Starsky now—or Starsky for him.

When Starsky had left this morning to get donuts, leaning round the door frame to wink and tease Hutch one last time, Hutch had smiled at him and waved him off. "Go on, and don't be all day."

For once, he'd broken down and admitted that he wanted a donut as well. "Raspberry filled," he'd instructed Starsky, with a defiant grin.

His partner had snorted in laughter. "Hutch, when you break your diet, you really go for it, don't you?"

"That's right," said Hutch, pretending to look menacing, though his moustache had twitched. "So don't keep a hungry man waiting."

"For his jelly donut," said Starsky, and snickered. "Okay, okay, I'm going!" He raised his hands, and trotted out.

That was the last time Hutch had seen him—Starsky's curly head, tight red t-shirt, battered blue jeans and humble Adidas rounding the corner, one last time.

After that the alarm had come, and they had all, to a man, rushed out to help with the evacuation and shelter effort. Cops directed traffic to try to keep the highways open, broke down barriers so cars could flee inland down both lanes, and tried to stop the looting—not because there would be any need for stores in the future after a nuclear disaster, but because the weaker people were getting hurt by the violent rampaging. Hutch had concentrated on trying to help people into shelters. Families, old people, those who didn't have access to cars or didn't want to risk their luck on the overcrowded highways when the bombs could fall any minute.

No one knew when. Already, all the news people had left. What ran on the radio and television were taped messages, warning of the war, the bombs, telling people not to panic but to proceed in an orderly fashion to shelters.

As if anyone would listen.

Hutch hadn't had a minute to himself. Certainly no time to waste looking for his partner and best friend. Starsky was, no doubt, helping as much as he could, the same as the rest of the Bay City police force.

Unless he'd been hit on the head trying to contain a panic. Unless he was lying dead in the street—or close to death, bleeding—right now.

_Like that other time…._ _Oh, Starsk…_

Hutch bit his lip. He turned to look at the dog again.

It was a hot day. If it didn't die from the bombs, it would die of thirst tied up like that.

It was a tame dog. A tame dog should never be turned loose. But—there was nothing else for it. Hutch walked back over, untied the dog, and walked away again.

Paws padded after him silently. He looked down at the shadow at his side. The dog looked up at him with a trusting gaze. Tears pricked Hutch's eyes.

Here came another vehicle, a large white van. But other than this, the streets were clear now. Litter blew here and there. The city looked abandoned and trashed, as though everyone had rushed away and forgotten to turn out the lights. Probably they had.

Hutch turned to the other police officer. "You help them to the shelter, then get down there yourself. I'm going to drive around and see if anyone has been missed." _Starsky, that is._

The policeman gave Hutch a worried, doubtful look and opened his mouth to say something.

"Hutch!"

It was Starsky.

Hutch whirled, his heart yammering in his throat, a glad smile growing on his face, despite everything.

Starsky came tumbling out of the van, stumbling a little on his sneakers. He wore a worried look, but even so, he grinned when he saw Hutch. He beckoned, and Hutch and the other cop ran forward.

All three helped unload the van full of people from the old folk's home, helping them carefully.

"They got forgotten, Hutch," said Starsky in an undertone. "The people in charge just told them to keep their windows shut, and then ran away. I couldn't let that happen."

Probably thinking about 'survival of the fittest,' thought Hutch cynically. Or just survival of themselves. Funny how nuclear disasters brought out the worst in people.

Or the best. He looked at his partner, and the young cop working by his side.

Hutch carried one frail old lady, and Starsky walked with two, one on each arm. He talked and smiled chattily to them as he guided the women down the wide, concrete steps to the basement.

Down here, it was cool, but the air felt heavy and stifled with the bated breaths of so many. Families packed in next to businessmen and homeless people. Here was a cross-section of people who hoped to survive by following the recommendations of the government and using the official fallout shelters.

Others tried their luck on the highways, hoping to outrun this disaster. Who knew who was right? Or who would survive?

All that mattered to Hutch, right now, was that Starsky was back.

As soon as they helped the last elderly man sit down on one of the hard, wooden benches, Hutch turned to Starsky, grinning.

"You took your time, partner!"

Starsky's smile was sheepish and his eyes bright with unshed tears. His throat bobbed. "Sorry Hutch, I couldn't get your donut."

"Never mind." Hutch wrapped his arms around Starsky, careless of any watchers, and held him close. "There's always tomorrow."

"There is, Hutch," said Starsky, only slightly muffled against his shoulder. He returned the hug tightly, then drew back and looked at Hutch seriously through his unshed tears. His hands squeezed warmth onto Hutch's sides. "There is. Any time now, they'll send out word that it was all a mistake. And tomorrow, we'll clean up the mess." He stirred, making as if to move away from Hutch. "But I saw a dog out there, Hutch. I think we better get it inside."

"Starsky," said Hutch in a sad voice.

Whatever he meant to say next was interrupted.

A dog barked, and barreled down the steps into the waiting arms of a little girl. She gave a glad sob, and buried her face in the dog's thick ruff.

Hutch looked up to face the sheepish gaze of the young policeman. "There's always a little extra room," the young man said, and shrugged.

And there was.

Aboveground, people fled down highways, sirens screamed in empty streets, empty buildings stared, and litter blew about.

Belowground, people watched, waited, sweated and prayed.

In a few hours, or minutes, they would know whether the skies brought death, or another day alive. Hutch surveyed the frightened, tensed faces. The parents putting on shaky smiles to reassure their children, some of whom were already trying to start games on the floor out of boredom.

If anyone here survived, would they ever take life for granted again?

Hutch suspected they would. It was too hard to live every moment in gratitude, in awareness of what you had nearly lost. He'd experienced that after Starsky nearly died. After a time, you were glad enough to be able to take things for granted again.

"Hey." Starsky interrupted his thoughts with a pat on Hutch's side. "Let's turn on a radio and wait for the all clear." He moved towards the middle of the great underground fallout shelter-basement, walking confidently.

That was Starsky. The man who had survived so much could never say die, never just give up. He had to keep hoping and believing that anything was possible.

Hutch followed, wishing with all his might that Starsky was right, that this would all be like a bad dream, in the morning.

But regardless of what happened, he knew there was no place he'd rather be than by his partner's side. Right now, and for as long as possible.


End file.
